that his profession had made of him. He felt rich to-night in the possession of that unstultified survival; in the light of his experience, it was more precious than honors or achievement. In all those busy, successful years there had been nothing so good as this hour of wild light-heartedness. This feeling was the only happiness that was real to him, and such hours were the only ones in which he could feel his own continuous identity-- feel the boy he had been in the rough days of the old West, feel the youth who had worked his way across the ocean on a cattle-ship and gone to study in Paris without a dollar in his pocket. The man who sat in his offices in Boston was only a powerful machine. Under the activities of that machine the person who, in such moments as this, he felt to be himself, was fading and dying. He remembered how, when he was a little boy and his father called him in the morning, he used to leap from his bed into the full consciousness of himself. That consciousness was Life itself. Whatever took its place, action, reflection, the power of concentrated thought, were only functions of a mechanism useful to society; things that could be bought in the market.
There was only one thing that had an absolute value for each individual, and it was just that original impulse, that internal heat, that feeling of one's self in one's own breast.
When Alexander walked back to his hotel, the red and green lights were blinking along the docks on the farther shore, and the soft white stars were shining in the wide sky above the river.
The next night, and the next, Alexander repeated this same foolish performance.
It was always Miss Burgoyne whom he started out to find, and he got no farther than the Temple gardens and the Embankment. It was a pleasant kind of loneliness. To a man who was so little given to reflection, whose dreams always took the form of definite ideas, reaching into the future, there was a seductive excitement in renewing old experiences in imagination. He started out upon these walks half guiltily, with a curious longing and expectancy which were wholly gratified by solitude. Solitude, but not solitariness; for he walked shoulder to shoulder with a shadowy companion--not little Hilda Burgoyne, by any means, but some one vastly dearer to him than she had ever been--his own young self, the youth who had waited for him upon the steps of the British Museum that night, and who, though he had tried to pass so quietly, had known him and come down and linked an arm in his.
It was not until long afterward that Alexander learned that for him this youth was the most dangerous of companions.
One Sunday evening, at Lady Walford's, Alexander did at last meet Hilda Burgoyne. Mainhall had told him that she would probably be there. He looked about for her rather nervously, and finally found her at the farther end of the large drawing-room, the centre of a circle of men, young and old. She was apparently telling them a story. They were all laughing and bending toward her. When she saw Alexander, she rose quickly and put out her hand. The other men drew back a little to let him approach.
'Mr. Alexander! I am delighted. Have you been in London long?'
Bartley bowed, somewhat laboriously, over her hand. 'Long enough to have seen you more than once. How fine it all is!'
She laughed as if she were pleased. 'I'm glad you think so. I like it. Won't you join us here?'
'Miss Burgoyne was just telling us about a donkey-boy she had in Galway last summer,' Sir Harry Towne explained as the circle closed up again. Lord Westmere stroked his long white mustache with his bloodless hand and looked at Alexander blankly. Hilda was a good story-teller. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, as if she had alighted there for a moment only. Her primrose satin gown seemed like a soft sheath for her slender, supple figure, and its delicate color suited her white Irish skin and brown hair. Whatever she wore, people felt the charm of her active, girlish body with its slender hips and quick, eager shoulders. Alexander heard little of the story, but he watched Hilda intently. She must certainly, he reflected, be thirty, and he was honestly delighted to see that the years had treated her so indulgently. If her face had changed at all, it was in a slight hardening of the mouth-- still eager enough to be very disconcerting at times, he felt--and in an added air of self- possession and self-reliance. She carried her head, too, a little more resolutely.
When the story was finished, Miss Burgoyne turned pointedly to Alexander, and the other men drifted away.
'I thought I saw you in MacConnell's box with Mainhall one evening, but I supposed you had left town before this.'
She looked at him frankly and cordially, as if he were indeed merely an old friend whom she was glad to meet again.
'No, I've been mooning about here.'
Hilda laughed gayly. 'Mooning! I see you mooning! You must be the busiest man in the world. Time and success have done well by you, you know. You're handsomer than ever and you've gained a grand manner.'
Alexander blushed and bowed. 'Time and success have been good friends to both of us. Aren't you tremendously pleased with yourself?'
She laughed again and shrugged her shoulders. 'Oh, so-so. But I want to hear about you. Several years ago I read such a lot in the papers about the wonderful things you did in Japan, and how the Emperor decorated you. What was it, Commander of the Order of the Rising Sun? That sounds likeThe Mikado.' And what about your new bridge-- in Canada, isn't it, and it's to be the longest one in the world and has some queer name I can't remember.'
Bartley shook his head and smiled drolly. 'Since when have you been interested in bridges? Or have you learned to be interested in everything? And is that a part of success?'
'Why, how absurd! As if I were not always interested!' Hilda exclaimed.
'Well, I think we won't talk about bridges here, at any rate.' Bartley looked down at the toe of her yellow slipper which was tapping the rug impatiently under the hem of her gown. 'But I wonder whether you'd think me impertinent if I asked you to let me come to see you sometime and tell you about them?'
'Why should I? Ever so many people come on Sunday afternoons.'
'I know. Mainhall offered to take me. But you must know that I've been in London several times within the last few years, and you might very well think that just now is a rather inopportune time--'
She cut him short. 'Nonsense. One of the pleasantest things about success is that it makes people want to look one up, if that's what you mean. I'm like every one else-- more agreeable to meet when things are going well with me. Don't you suppose it gives me any pleasure to do something that people like?'
'Does it? Oh, how fine it all is, your coming on like this! But I didn't want you to think it was because of that I wanted to see you.' He spoke very seriously and looked down at the floor.
